


A First Time For Everything

by afractionof



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 18+, M/M, Older!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 10:58:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afractionof/pseuds/afractionof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a first time for everything— you’ve heard it before, experienced it first hand once or twice. You just didn’t think John Egbert, of all people, would be the one to show you that, even with all your so-called experience, there’s always room for a little more and maybe even another First to cross off that list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> First Two Part Fic, something old I reworked. Still not sure how well I like it, but did enjoy writing it.

_"I want to fuck you."_

The words ring around your apartment and you're pretty sure you've stopped breathing.

It’s almost surreal and, for a moment, you have to wonder if you’re sleeping, dreaming, even. You’ve got a good imagination, after all, and it’s run away from you on more than one occasion. Years of practice have taught you how to keep you it in check, for the most part, but, you’re almost convinced it’s finally gotten the better of you.

Because Jesus fuck, did John Egbert, Dave's nerdy little friend from Washington, really just say he wanted to fuck you?

...did you hear that right?

A quick glance to the side pretty much confirms that, yeah… yeah, you actually did. You weren’t making it up and he did, in fact, just blatantly interrupt your work-- your peaceful night alone, without him or anyone else to pester the fuck out of you-- to announce, rather shamelessly, that he wanted to do just that.

And you don't know why but your pants are starting to feel tight just thinking about it.

No—fuck-- you know exactly why.

It's because he's got the most perfect set of hips you've ever fucking seen and he’s been swinging them around in that careless, ‘I’ve got no idea how fucking hot I am’ kind of way since he got off the damn plane.

You don’t even have to bother using any imagination to know just how perfectly your hands would fit over the curves and lines you’ve gotten a pretty good glimpse of between juggling the shower and laundry days. It’s not an exaggeration when you say your hands were made for those hips and the tan skin he hides under Iron Man shirts and ghost buster pajamas that look a size too small.

You know he’d look just right, that soft tan held up against the honey color your hands have taken on and, God, you won't even bother saying it doesn’t have anything to do with those being _your hands_ , marks _you_ left, because you've been staring at him since he got there three weeks ago and you've about had enough.

And that's not even getting started on that ass and the way he wears his pants, loose and too baggy for something he should be showcasing.

Jesus, it’s perfect and smooth and firm and here he is presenting everything you’ve been wanting like it’s no big deal and you could just reach out and take a handful and --

No, fuck—you can’t do that, whether that’s what you want to do or not.  

Jesus fuck, you need to stop because that's Dave's barely legal friend and you need to fucking _stop_ being that guy.

You're Bro Strider and you sure as fuck don't get worked up over dorky-just-got-into-college kids.

Except this one, apparently but, hey, you figure every guy’s got some kind of kryptonite, superman or not.

You count yourself lucky that you're at your desk and you don't even have to try to subtly hide the outline of your dick straining against your jeans. Anything more obvious would just be flat embarrassing and Strider’s just don’t pull shit like that.

You’re thirty-fucking-six. You’re not a kid. You don’t do this easy up stuff and you sure as shit don’t get this fucking riled up over a kid that probably changed in the bathrooms for gym class.

You take time and work, damn it, and someone that knows what the fuck they’re doing and not this clumsy confession crap. But even as you think it, you know you’re not even fooling yourself anymore, just making some shitty excuse because this is John Egbert and he’s got you acting like you’re a teenager again. 

God, he's probably waiting for an answer too, and you’re just sitting there, staring at him like an idiot while you try to rationalize yourself out of thoughts you’d been pretty sure you’d given into ages ago.

So you just grunt, something unintelligible and purposefully irritating, and force your hands to go back to what they were doing, clicking shit on the screen while you cut and crop different frames. Ads don't make themselves, after all and you’ve got a business to run. It's mindless work, which is good because your mind is anywhere but on the sleazy cutouts in front of your eyes but it gives you something to do, an out for slow replies and a short attention span.

This is some serious shit here, puppets and porn and all that. 

"Bro, hey--"

And there he goes, off on one of those babbling rants with an expression for every wave of his hand, the ones where his eyes get all sincere and he wets his lips over and over and fucking over and you stop listening after the first sentence because you don't even give a shit at that point.

You're pretty sure he doesn't even realize he does it because John Egbert is likely as sexually active as a turnip and clueless as a box of rocks when it comes to seduction. Not that you’ve got any room to talk about his lack of sexual prowess because he’s obviously doing a damn fine job on you. 

But, you’ve got to cut yourself a little slack because it's fucking hot and you'd sit around all day, just listening to him babble about whatever the fuck he wanted if he'd keep doing it. 

You noticed it the day he got here. Dave had been bitching about something, you sure as fuck weren't listening to that either but then John did his thing with the smile and the lip licking and you couldn't look away.

You'd never been so thankful for your shades in your entire life. It’s have taken little more than a second before Dave was all over you because he would have known right off the bat how you were looking at him.

And those hands. And that tongue. And that ass.

You bite back a groan as you tune back in when you think he's finally shut up. It's a little too late to be curious but you can't help it because he's standing right next to you now, blue eyes trained on your face and God damn it, where did he even get off having things that color? You know he can see you looking but at this point the amount of fucks you give is slipping. He just smiles, arms crossed while he waits and that’s something else you like about John.

You’re used to guys looking up at you, shying away from you when you snap at them or when you frown but John doesn’t. You could probably kick is ass six way from Sunday and he gives about as many fucks you generally do about the weather.

He doesn't take your shit and sasses you right back and it's sexy as hell.

"You talk a lot."

You're honestly not sure why that’d been the thing to come out of your mouth, but you're glad it came out as steady as it did and not on a sigh because he really doesn't even know how much of a tease he is. It's ridiculous.

"Yeah, I've been told that once or twice. Probably more times than I can count."

And there he goes doing it all over again.

Shaking your head, you lean back in the chair. "What makes you think I'd even consider letting you touch me?"

Your nonchalant tone doesn't even faze him and you can't help but arch an eyebrow behind the point of your glasses when he sets a hand on your shoulder and his lips curve up into something far more playful than you're used to from this kid.

"Cuz I've seen you staring at my ass."

His answer is pretty straightforward and you’re a little impressed. It's also pretty accurate, lining up nicely with what you've been doing for the last couple weeks and you don't bother denying it. There's really no point anyway and you’ve never considered yourself a liar.

"It's a fine ass," you reply, lifting the shoulder his hand is settled on in a lazy shrug. "Lot of fine asses out there though."

He's still not fazed and you almost jump out of your seat when his hands grip the back of the chair and he jerks you back, away from the desk.

He's pretty limber, quick too, and you can't help but let out an appreciative sound of thanks when he doesn't crush your junk as he piles into your lap. You were almost ready to wince because John isn’t a small guy. He’s maybe a couple inches shorter than you are and broad enough to swing that stupid Hammerkind of his around with enough strength to lay you out flat if you let him.

That thought's forgotten though when his hands drop and he palms you through the denim of your jeans. "This is saying mine might be kind of special. And, maybe, if not that, that it's here and you still want me."

"Kid, you don't know what you're doing."

"Stop calling me 'kid'," he chides, fisting a hand in your shirt. "My name is 'John' and I know you know that so use it, okay?"

Your eyes dart down to his hand, pressing wrinkles into the white material of your shirt, and you reach up, wrapping your fingers around his wrist.

That tone’s not something you’re used to getting and it’d make you smile if you weren’t more concerned with his weight in your lap and the warmth you can feel rolling off of him.

" _John_." You're careful to emphasize his name, saying it slowly and letting the letters get a little drawn out on the tip of your tongue just because you can see that he likes it. He likes his name on your lips and it's not hard to imagine what he's thinking when his hips shift forward into yours and his hand is twitching in your grasp.

Green as the fucking grass. God, he really is a virgin.

"Why."

He's quiet for a minute and it doesn't escape your notice when he stills, his tongue darting out to wet his lips and you can’t help but do the same.

What would it be like to fuck that mouth, you wonder, to put that tongue to a better use than just a teasing glimpse here and there?

You already know the answer to that. It'd be perfect—sloppy and unsure but you don’t have any doubts he’d be enthusiastic and there’s no better combination. You almost want to just shove him down and let yourself drown in the kind of first kisses that’d leave him breathless and gasping as he learned how follow, how to push and pull, to handle you. 

"Because I like you."

The soft tone halts your train of thought like a bucket of cold water and you feel yourself tense up.

Fuck, he did not just say he _liked_ you. You don't do that kind of shit. You're too old to like someone or get caught up in those shitty emotional rides with anyone and you could understand if he just wanted to screw around, try out some shit and learn a little about what the fuck he was doing. _That_ you’re all over. That you can handle, with something pretty close to your own level of enthusiasm, even. 

But you’re not a complete asshole and you don’t want to hurt his feelings.

"Listen, kid--"

"--John."

You roll your eyes, letting go of his hand to grip his hips and lift him off your lap. "John. I’m not the guy for you."

His hands fit around your wrists and he grips tightly as he pushes down on you, shaking his head. "Don’t I get to decide that stuff?"

"No." His indignant huff is almost endearing and, in some sick kind of way, you almost want to continue, tell him why he can't do this and can't do that, just to see if he'll make it again. "Now go back to bed, kid."

One of his hands finds your cheek and he pushes your face back but he’s laughing and you don’t even fucking know why. “Bro, I told you not to call me that. You're as bad as Dave."

You just shrug, only half listening. Your mind is still caught on the way his lips form his words and that half second where they purse to shape the 'B' and how crisp it sounds with his accent and, Jesus, you really need to stop. And he really needs to go before you disregard all that good parenting shit you've been putting into practice these last few years and just throw him down on the floor and forget that he’s never done this and you’re a bad first choice.

And that… none of that was stopping, or helping and he's talking again but you're rapidly running out of fucks to really give here because all of those clipped words are perfectly formed and it’s distracting as hell.

"--so, don't tell me you're not the guy for me because you're a perfectly fine guy, okay? You're kind in this weird, maybe a little fucked up kind of way but that’s okay because that’s just how you are. I mean, how could you not be after all you've done for Dave and stuff and--"

"Hey, hey… can it."

He does so with a sound of muffled surprise and your tongue dips out, swiping his bottom lip.

You've always firmly believed kisses were the best way to get someone to can it but you've never really gotten a reaction this satisfying, even if you’re still telling yourself you’re an idiot. This wasn’t the thing that was supposed to be happening. But this is John and you're starting to figure out that most things aren’t exactly normal with him and you’re not about to start complaining any time soon.

You don’t have much of a reason but it’s fine. It’s cool, you don’t need one. He was doing that thing again and you're tired of staring at the darkened marks he's leaving on the curve of his bottom lip with those teeth of his. It's your turn now and you let out a low, pleased hum when your teeth pinch down lightly and he sighs into your mouth.

"Still not the right guy," you mumble, pressing a light kiss to the mark you just left. You're trying to forget that though and it’s not proving to be much of a challenge when he's squirming in your lap like that.

Especially when you're not even sure it's intentional.

There’s a part of you that’s pretty sure it is because how could it not be. It’s obvious you want him and it’s the obvious opening to take advantage of. But, it’s also pretty obvious that Egbert doesn’t land himself in situations like this regularly and just because you’ve been letting people into your lap since before he was born, doesn’t mean he has any experience—at all.

And just the thought, that reminder, is kind of sobering and you have to pull back.

Shit. He’s what, eighteen? Fuck, that’s way too young for you and you’re way too old to be letting this kind of crap go on.

"Bro? Are you--"

You lift a hand, clamping it over his mouth and shake your head. "Just shut up."

You need to think. You need to cool your head. You need a God damn smoke.

He makes a muffled sound and your fingers pinch into his cheeks just a bit. "Jesus, can you be quiet for a second?"

Your shades have slid down your nose just enough for you to look over them and you shoot a glare his way.

Damn kid.

You want to strangle him when he just lifts an eyebrow at you. It’s clear he’s not even fucking fazed and that’s it—that’s the killer. That’s what you like _so god damn_ much. That’s what makes him different from all those other people and that… that is what makes it so damn hard to let go of him.

That is the only thing you’ve ever fucking wanted and this kid, Dave’s friend, that’s the guy—of all the people out there—that’s giving it to you and that’s it.

You don’t really care anymore so forget it.  He asked, he’s legal, he’s an adult. He can make his own decisions and you did your good deed for the night by even attempting to talk yourself out of something you want.

"Fuck it," you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else and you know he's going say something, question it, and give you a second to rethink whatever the fuck you’re about to do so you don't bother giving him a chance.

Your lips meet his, your hands slide down to grip those hips you've been waiting for, and you answer his moan with a low one of your own in return.

Because fuck it.

That’s a reason in someone’s book-- somewhere. You’re sure.

You'll think about it in the morning. You know you're not a saint. You don't have any grand notions of being one and you're not under any false impressions that this isn't wrong in more than one way.

But the way he grips your hair, all twitchy and nervous and clumsy, how his breath hitches and his teeth knock against yours and how he can’t fucking sit still… all of that honestly makes you care even less.

First times are meant to be good experiences and, at the very least, you can just brush it off by saying you're giving him that, if nothing else. You're making sure that some pushy shithead doesn't come around and leave him burning up and sore from his hips down. You’re making sure he wants it, you asked, he said yes and you know you can at least give him something good to remember.

It doesn't have anything to do with how fucking perfect he feels in your arms, or the way he sighs your name or how his hands find your shoulders and your neck and he can’t decide if he wants to push you down or pull you closer, or any of that other shit.

It’s just an experience and if you wake up wanting to repeat it, well, you’ll deal with it later.

 


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the second half.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure this isn't what it started out as, but not complaining.

Or maybe you were wrong. Maybe it does have something to do with his hands and everything else and maybe you were just deluding yourself in some spineless move to feel a little better about a situation that's already making you feel pretty fucking good.

It didn't take much to convince him to move; a touch to his back, your hands squeezing his sides and a soft suggestion to find someone more comfortable and he was up, moving out of your lap and taking your hand to lead you to the futon on the far side of the room.

He drops down on to the edge and reaches up, pushing your shirt up so you can pull it off as he makes a short noise of approval that turns into something a lot less agreeable when your hands drop to your pants. He swats them aside, muttering under his breath and it’s hard not to laugh because you didn’t expect him to want to fumble with the buttons on your jeans.

But fumble he does and that’s okay with you because at least he’s not sitting there, wide eyed and staring and too nervous to even touch you.  

When he gets them open, you wait, letting him drag the zipper down as you sigh and hook his fingers in your belt loops to pull. The jeans slide easily enough and the muscles in your stomach jump when you feel his lips ghost over the trail of blond hair disappearing under the waistband of your boxer briefs.

Your hands slide into his hair, nails scraping over his scalp and for a brief moment, his eyes close before his head tips back and he smiles up at you.

God, he's fucking cute.

Your pants are hooked around your thighs, his fingers warm up against your legs even as they shake and you sigh. "You sure about this?"

You've gotta ask, to check. This is Dave's friend and you need to hear it.

His nod is as shaky as his hands but his smile widens anyway. "Yeah. Just nervous. I've never--"

"Don't worry. I got that first time I saw you."

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

You shake your head and kick your pants off, pressing a hand to his chest to push him back against the futon. "Means you talk too damn much, kid."

"John."

" _John_ ," you repeat as you crawl up to hover over him.

You slide your hands down his sides, tugging lightly at his shirt and you hook them in the material riding low on his hips. They’re just sleep shorts—blue ones, even and you kind of like them but they need togo and you shoot a glance up at his face for confirmation before you start tugging them down without a care.

He gives it, not that you really expected anything else, and they're gone in a matter of seconds, dropped off the side of the bed to land with your pants and shirt.

Your eyes stray up his legs, hands coming forward to smooth up his thighs and you swallow thickly when he shudders beneath you.

He’s perfect—So. Fucking. Perfect. Christ, you can't wait to get your mouth all over that pretty skin, those fingers he's got gripping your bed, all of him.

You're sliding up, legs moving to either side of his hips to straddle him when a hand taps against your chest and your thoughts taper off, back to a more stable reality and the set of bright eyes staring up at you behind thin, black frames.

"Can I-- would you take off the shades?" 

You just knew he was going to ask about that and your automatic response is 'no' but the way he's looking at you is so fucking soft and genuine and needy that you're tempted to just pull them off without making a fuss for what feels like the first time in years.

But you can’t and your hands won’t move because that’s just not something you do.

The shades don’t come off for anyone and you don’t even know this kid.  

You must have taken too long thinking about it though because John is plastering up a big smile and you're pretty sure it's both sincere and forced in some weird, mixed kind of way. "It's okay, you don't have to. I just really want to see your eyes because I’ve only gotten to see that tiny little bit of them that comes out over your glasses when Dave won’t shut up and--"

"Christ, John. Will you shut up?"

The words seem somehow less, not as insistent and lacking the usual finality when you're laughing as you say them but the way his cheeks flush, light an almost invisible against tanned skin, and he shrugs at you makes up for the bite you lost somewhere between his appearance and getting him out of his pants.

"Just… chill," you mutter, shaking your head. "Someday. Maybe. "

You won’t lie and say you’re not relieved that he gave you an excuse. It says a little more about him than you were prepared for but it’s all good stuff—understanding, that he’s not going to push or nag at you about something that’s not really any of his business and it just makes you like him more.

And that makes you pause, glancing out the sides of the lenses and you find yourself sighing, lifting a hand before you can over think it.

One look can’t hurt. It’ll be just another first to add to the huge pile of experiences you’re already racking up here.

And if it’s a first for you, well, he doesn’t need to know that.  

You give him a look over the sharp edges, hoping he understands that this isn't going to become a normal thing between the two of you, and slide them off. “One look. That’s it.”  

He stares and you can’t say you expected anything less. Orange isn’t a popular color, as far as you know, or normal in any way. You figure he’s see Dave’s eyes though and red’s not exactly the usual fashion. But, you know there’s another difference and where Dave’s whole face is expressive, the shades more like a boost to the poker face you’d tried to teach him, your eyes are expressive and the shades just cover it up.

Without them you feel naked. He’s seeing something he doesn’t need to, he’ll get more out of whatever you say than you mean to let slip, he’ll see you.

And that scares the shit out of you for more reasons that you’re willing to consider right now, when his hands are rubbing over your sides and you realize it’s a soothing motion—meant for you more than it is for him.  

After a moment, when the silence stretches too thin, you clear your throat. "Like what you see?"

He nods, keeping the answer simple. "They're really.... bright."

“Yeah, little bit.”

“And orange.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious.”

He laughs a little, shoulders shaking even as he shrugs. “Hey, you never know! Dave’s pretty oblivious sometimes, maybe it’s a family thing.”

"You're such a dork."

The words tumble out and your try not to roll your eyes at yourself when he laughs harder. Loose lips aren't your thing but all this chatter must be contagious and maybe it’s not so bad.  It’s just John Egbert and, if nothing else, he’s definitely a dork.

Either way, you guess it doesn't matter because he just grins at you. "Yeah, I know."

He really doesn't even seem to fucking mind and that's kind of-- well, you might not call it sexy but it's fucking attractive in the same way confidence is and that’s it. He’s got some kind of confidence in himself that doesn’t come from hiding but from project his love for shitty movies and old school sheet music. Even his teeth—he doesn’t go out of his way to cover them up and you have to admit, you like how he just doesn’t care about any of that, like it’s not even a thing to worry about.

It's endearing, sweet, honest—things you’re not exactly used to seeing anywhere but on the television when you’re too tired to dig out the remote and click off whatever chick flick is playing.

And, yeah, it kind of worries you a little that this kid is projecting all that honesty at you and you’re eating it up. You don’t do that commitment stuff. You don’t settle down, you don’t learn new tricks and you think he knows that. But, you've got this sickening feeling it's creeping closer and all because of John fucking Egbert, the dork with the firm thighs and a smooth ass that's sitting between your legs and you haven’t even done more than kiss him.

Your thoughts are probably written all over your face and, for a second, you want to put your shades back on, to cover all that shit back up but the fingers squeezing lightly at your sides stop you and you set them aside.

It’s harder than you expected and he knows it. You can tell in the way his eyes soften and his hands shift, trailing light touches up your chest until one cups the back of your neck and he pulls you down.

Good. You’re glad because that means you don’t have to explain it.

Maybe he's realizing this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, or that you at least want him to think it is. You don’t care. Besides, you’ve already come this far...  

You sigh when his hands find the skin on the insides of your thighs and you roll your hips forward. "This is your chance, kid, tell me what you want."

"I want you to stop calling me 'kid'."

His tone makes you smile, somewhere between exasperated and distracted, and you can almost feel the fondness in it.

Shit, he really does like you if he can put up with your shit like that.

“Right,” you murmur, giving a nod that probably doesn’t mean anything. He’s not stupid. He knows you’ll do it again, you’ll let another one slip out and he’ll correct you again and you can already see it, the next week before he leaves and how fucking flirty it’s going to sound. Dave’s going to give you a look you won’t be able to meet but you’re not going to be able to help yourself and it’ll be worth the lecture he gives you once John’s out of the room.

His fingers dance over the subtle, toned lines on your stomach and you shiver, letting out a soft breath when one palm is pushes against your chest while the other snakes down your back, pressing against the base of your spine.

You arch into him automatically, back bending without thought and it’s worth the moment of surprise that flashes over his face.

"Still need to tell me what you want," you remind him, sliding your arms against the mattress to settle, your chest against his and you’re glad you don’t have to tell him to move his hand.

Maybe he’s not as green as you’d thought, or maybe he’s just a natural and either one is fine with you, as long as you can skip the obvious directing some people seem to need. 

His skin’s got that warm taste, like sun and a little bit of sweat, just like you thought it would and you drag your lips over the curve of his neck. He doesn’t complain about the scratch of the stubble on your chin and you bring a hand up, petting his hair back.

That’s one of those things you can’t stand. You’re a man, you shave, it’s a thing that happens and like fuck you’re going to hop up to just to shave off something that shouldn’t be an issue.

You get having preferences but, damn, you like that rough texture, on your wrists, your thighs, against your cheek, and you’re not really sure what there is to dislike about it.

It doesn’t matter though because John obviously doesn’t care.

It honestly doesn’t seem like he cares about much more than the way you’re grinding down against him and that’s cool with you. It’s pretty hard to ignore the breathy moans he’s exhaling against the shell over your ears and you don’t want to.

You just want to soak this up and fall into the clumsy touches, the kisses he’s pressing against your shoulder.

You almost find it kind of funny that he’s getting to you too, making you bite your lip when his nails dig into your skin and his hips jerk, thrusting against you without any sense of rhythm of planning.

It’s funny because you don’t need more than this to make your skin hot or your toes curl and when you sit up, eyes darting over his mussed hair, his parted lips, you catch sight that tongue again, dipping out to wet the same spot you’d bitten earlier and that’s it.

It’s official.

There’s something different about John and you’re curious and really, really fucked because he likes you. He’s seen the puppets, he’s seen what you do and what you don’t. He’s probably spent the last seven years listening to Dave bitch about you at random intervals and he’s still here, gripping your hips like a lifeline as you straddle him, letting you talk him through one of the most nerve wracking experiences in life. You’ve been there, you know firsthand what a bad first time is like and that’s not what this is.

This is a good thing and you’re almost sorry for shrugging him off earlier and maybe later you’ll apologize because there’s something else here-- for you-- that you hadn’t seen earlier and it’s simple.

He’s not here because of how you look. He’s not here to see how far he can get with a guy that keeps his mouth shut and wears anime shades at thirty-six.

He just really likes _you_ and that’s another first to add to the pile.


End file.
